Jill held up a single finger: Wait.
"I can handle that," she said. "How much of everything do you need?"
I blinked a few times, then handed her the copy of the purchase order. She scanned over it briefly, then picked up the phone on my desk. "It'll be a very reasonable price," she said. "So don't worry."
"I'm not worried," I said. "Just - I didn't know you had seafood connections."
She smiled as she tucked the phone between her ear and shoulder. "It's Boston, Chef. Everybody knows somebody who knows somebody."
I wasn't sure that was strictly accurate, at least when it came to seafood. But I wasn't about to question it.
"Mr. Lamott, hi. It's Jill Brown - Shelly's friend. I've just started working at a new restaurant....yes....yeah, thank you. Here's the thing, though, we're supposed to open today and we ran into a little hiccup....yeah, you guessed it....within a few hours?...oh, awesome. That's fantastic....yes, thanks, I'll hold."
"He's transferring me to the warehouse," she mouthed, in my direction. I just nodded.
While she was reading off the order, I started to wonder what the hell was wrong with me. I'd had vendors cancel on me plenty of times before. I'd dealt with missing orders, wrong orders, spoiled orders...granted, I'd never had someone cancel on this short of a notice before, but I still should have been able to handle it better than I did. I should have been on the phone immediately, not waiting for Jill to come in and rescue me.
What was this woman doing to me?
***
"Uhhh, Chef?"
Aiden's eyes were huge. He was staring at me, that deer-in-the-headlights look that would have brought out untold levels of rage in me - if only he wasn't family.
"Yes, Aiden," I said, as patiently as I could manage. The kitchen activity was starting to pick up, the seafood had arrived just in the nick of time, and everything seemed to be running smoothly for the time being. But I had a feeling that was about to change.
"I think I screwed up," he said. "I took some reservations, and...I think I took too many..."
"What? When?" My mind started racing. "You're not supposed to make any reservations, Aiden. That's not your job. One is too many. Did you check Cat's book, at least?"
"....yeah," he said, drawing the word out slowly. "But I think I kind of...read it wrong..."
Moments later, Cat, the hostess, burst in.
"Chef," she said, urgently, looking almost as angry as she was terrified. "I don't know what happened. I must have forgotten to switch it over to the messaging service before I went to lunch the other day, and..." She glared over in Aiden's direction.
"I thought I was helping," Aiden insisted, turning to her. His voice was raised in a way I didn't like.
"Hey!" I snapped. "Bickering doesn't help us now. What's the situation? How bad is it?"
Cat cleared her throat. "I think we're...I think we're double-booked until at least 8 o'clock."
"Christ." I pressed my fingertips into my closed eyes for a moment. "All right. Okay. Aiden, get back to your customers. Cat, we'll just have to play this by ear. Some of these people won't show, and some of the earlier ones won't stay as long as we planned. We'll manage. Right? And if anyone gives you too much trouble, call me to the front. I'll deal with them."
She nodded, taking a deep breath and returning to her station. I felt for her more than anyone. Worst case scenario, the bad press for this would still come off as "Chef Dylan's New Restaurant Too Popular For Its Own Good." But she was on the front lines, and was almost guaranteed to take the brunt of every inconvenienced diner's anger.
Aiden was a liability. I'd known that when I hired him. But I was enough of a black sheep in my family already, without refusing to hire my nephew when he was in a rough spot. My sister Megan, she begged, and she guilt-tripped, and she was practically a professional at that.
I hadn't spent much time with the kid since he was - well, a kid. But from what I remembered he was always friendly and pleasant enough. Unfortunately, that didn't transfer to actual work skills.
Finally, I went back to my work, with only half of my concentration focused on the food. It was early yet. Things wouldn't get hairy until later, when the restaurant began to grow crowded, and we'd have to start turning people away - some of whom might actually have reservations.
What a clusterfuck.
***
"Excuse me. Excuse me." I could hear the man's voice echoing through the whole dining room, even before I got close to the door. I picked up my pace, just as he began to bellow: "I want you to explain to me why I, a paying customer with a reservation, have to stand here and explain to my wife that we can't eat here tonight. She's been looking forward to this for months. Months!"
He was poking his finger dangerously close to Cat's chest. Swiftly, I stepped between them and caused the man to step backwards without actually touching him.
"Sir," I said. "I'm very sorry for the inconvenience. We'll be happy to have you any other night with openings still available, on the house. Tonight, unfortunately, things are very tight."
"But I have a reservation." The man was practically quivering with rage, and I found myself wondering, as I had during many similar encounters in the past, where he found the energy. I could understand a lot of emotions in conjunction with this situation, but pure, unadulterated fury?
Yes, yes, I know. Glass houses, throwing stones and all that.
But still, you have to conserve your energy for things that actually matter, don't you?
As I attempted to talk the man down, I had to fight the sinking realization that this was only the first of many similar arguments I'd be having tonight.
Wonderful. Just wonderful.
***
"Well, we're all still alive."
Beckett was tossing a wine cork into the air and catching it, over and over again. Maddeningly.
"What are you, a cat?" I snapped at him, lifting my head from where it was resting in my hands. My elbows had slid so far on my desk that I was hardly upright anymore.
I'd had a more serious talk with Aiden once things slowed down, and I was now confident that he wouldn't touch the reservation book again. So, that was a small win. But still, tomorrow morning I'd just have to get up and do this all over again.
It was the best and worst thing about this business.
"Jill came through nicely for us," he pointed out, still tossing the cork in the air. "Lucky find, that one."
Nodding, I perked up a little. "I had no idea," I said. "Couldn't have. It's not exactly something you put on a resume, but it certainly did turn out to be useful."
Beckett was watching me, like he wanted to bring something up, but couldn't figure out how.
"Spit it out," I said.
"What is it about her?" he asked, finally.
My throat tightened.
"I don't know what you mean," I said, a little too forcefully.
"Thought you said you were going to be a priest," he pointed out, just softly enough that I could have ignored it, if I wanted to.
"It's not like that," I said. "I don't know what it is about her. But it's not...like that."
"Ah. So you admit there's something." Beckett swiveled in his chair. "Had you ever met her before the interview?"
"No," I said, not sure why I was bothering to lie. Beckett always knew.
"Bullshit," he said. "Was it really that bad?"
"Bad enough," I said. "I think she's only working for me because she's desperate."
"Well, that's true of plenty of people, isn't it?" He was grinning, but it wasn't really a joke.
"Could be," I said. "But this is different."
How, exactly, I didn't know. But thankfully, for once in his life, Beckett was content to let things lie.
CHAPTER NINE
Portefeuille
The portefeuille family is a diverse one, ranging anywhere from omelets to chicken cordon bleu. The basic principle is to fold, stuff, or place in layers, creating a delicious, unexpec
ted surprise somewhere hidden underneath the outermost layers.
- Excerpted from Dylan: A Lifetime of Recipes
***
Jill
***
I could not figure this guy out.
Of course, I knew he was fond of mind games, bullying, manipulation, and pretty much everything I couldn't stand. But I still had trouble reading Chef Dylan, and it was becoming a major problem.
After opening night, I was feeling pretty good about saving the day. Shelly's father loved the extra business, and was very pleased to be supplying such a famous chef. It was a win-win-win. Still, though, I felt anxious about the whole thing. Had I overstepped my bounds? Was Chef going to see me as a threat now, instead of an asset?
I had no idea. With an ego that big, there was simply no telling.
By the first day of our third week in business, my mind was swirling with so many contradictory thoughts and feelings that it must have showed. On my lunch break, Beckett stopped in the back to ask me if I was all right.
"Yeah, thanks," I said, putting on a brave smile. "Just...you know, it's always overwhelming, getting back to work after a while."
He nodded sympathetically. "And with a boss like my brother, too."
I smiled. "I wasn't going to say anything, but...yeah."
"Let me tell you something about my brother," he said, pulling out a chair. "People always think he's trying to trick them. They ascribe these evil genius motivations to him. But it's really very simple. You've got to take what he says at face value. When he tells you something, believe him."
I do, I wanted to say, but I didn't. I was making the same assumption as everybody else, but I didn't want to admit it.
"Nobody gets it, at first," Beckett went on. "You just kind of assume he's like everybody else, you know? We all lie just to get through our day. A hundred times, probably. Or at least skirt the truth. But he's different, and sure, it gets him into a lot of trouble. I'm not defending him. Lying is a social nicety. I'm pretty sure it's in Miss Manners. But Max is unfiltered. No agenda. What you see is what you get."
His voice was quieter than usual, but what clued me in was his staccato speech pattern: this was hard for him to talk about. A lifetime of defending an indefensible man had clearly taken its toll.
It was interesting, the contrast between the two men. I'd seen Beckett's eyes flash when someone said something he knew was wrong. I'd watched him carefully measure his words, coming up with a diplomatic way to shoot down whatever he didn't like. Beckett, like his brother, was a man of much experience and strong opinions to go along with it. But unlike Maxwell, he'd learned the fine art of biting his tongue. I got the sense that it wasn't humility that made him do it. It was practicality. He wanted the quickest, most effective path to getting things done his way. And for him, he'd found that diplomacy worked best.
His brother had obviously come to a different conclusion.
***
"I'm sorry, Chef," Aiden was saying, for the fiftieth time this week. It was just a pitcher of water spilled in the dining room, this time, but the cumulative effect of his fuck-ups qualified him as a walking natural disaster.
"It's all right," said Chef Dylan, in the most exhausted voice I'd ever heard from him. "Just be more careful in the future."
I was on the verge of asking him - what, exactly, I didn't know. There was no way to frame the question so it wouldn't be insulting. Chef clearly had his reasons for hiring Aiden in the first place, and most importantly, for not firing him. It would be straight-up rude for me to even ask him why, because he clearly wasn't doing it on a lark. Failing to cut the biggest, most obvious dead weight in his kitchen was a big risk. Even for a guy like Chef Dylan. Maybe especially for a guy like Chef Dylan. Like all chefs, he had a reputation to protect. But unlike most of them, every misstep of his was likely to draw media attention. They just loved kicking him while he was down. Not too long ago, I used to think he deserved it.
But now, whether I liked it or not, I was playing on his team. More success for him meant more success for me.
We had to do something about Aiden.
The opportunity finally presented itself a few days later, during a quiet period after the lunch rush. After he'd satisfied himself that Liam had dinner prep going smoothly, he finally leaned against the counter and swiped his big white sleeve across his forehead, letting out a massive sigh. His long, lean body sagged a little, making him look astonishingly vulnerable. I waited until he opened his eyes again, and then started to formulate an opener.
"What?" he said, before I had a chance to open my mouth. I realized that I was staring at him.
"Sorry." Immediately, my eyes snapped back to my table. There was a hot, prickling blush creeping up the back of my neck. "I just wanted - there's something..."
"Yes?" he prodded, making a go on gesture with his hand.
"It's about Aiden," I said.
His mouth twitched, almost like he was suppressing a grimace. "What about him?"
"It's...he's..." All the times I'd practiced this conversation in my head, and I still couldn't spit it out. Everything was harder with Chef staring me down. Those blue-gray eyes piercing right through me, like I wasn't even there. I cleared my throat. "He really seems to be struggling," I said, at last. I just couldn't bring myself to be too harsh on the kid, even though taking the diplomatic route meant Chef Dylan would probably write me off as a pushover.
"I know," Chef said, his eyes still fixed mercilessly on me. "Do you have any suggestions?"
A genuine question, or a challenge? As usual, I couldn't be sure. I decided to proceed with caution. "I think...I think he needs a lot of guidance," I said. "Plenty of feedback, both about the positive things, and the areas where he really needs improvement. And then..." I bit my lower lip. "To be honest, Chef, I don't know if he's going to be a good long-term fit. Not if he doesn't improve a lot, and quickly."
Chef nodded, slowly, his gaze slightly distant now. He was now looking over me, rather than through me, and I could almost sense the physical shift. I no longer felt like a butterfly pinned to a card.
"I know," he said, finally. But it lacked the bite that I was expecting - the implication of how could you be so stupid as to point out the obvious? And then, even more surprising: "Thank you for being honest."
"Sure," I said. "Anytime."
He looked...troubled, in a way I'd never seen him before. If I didn't know better, I'd say he was plagued by self-doubt. But not Chef Dylan. Surely, no.
"There's just a small problem with Aiden," he said, after a moment, startling me. I'd assumed the conversation was over. "When I opened this restaurant, I promised his mother he'd always have a job here. A good one. He needs it. He needs the structure, you know, something to keep him busy. And he can't work just anywhere, because of the..." Chef cleared this throat. "But anyway. That doesn't matter. What matters is, we need to find a way to make it work."
This was the answer I'd been fearing. I was going to have to find some way to compensate for Aiden's shortcomings. We all would. And maybe we'd do all right. But I knew from personal experience that nothing hobbled a business faster than an un-fireable employee. Aiden seemed good-natured enough, but what incentive did he have to do better work if he knew he was protected?
But if I knew that, Chef Dylan knew it too. He had ten times the restaurant experience I did.
You must owe his mother one hell of a favor.
A thought occurred to me in a flash - he's your son. That would explain a hell of a lot. But no, it wasn't quite right. It had to be something like that, but I wasn't quite on-target.
I realized Chef was still standing there, staring at the wall, like it contained the answers to all of life's problems. "Well," I said, because it felt too awkward to say nothing. "I'm sure we can draw up some kind of - you know, performance improvement plan. Maybe he just needs a little extra help with things. Practice working under pressure. He'll improve. I can tell he wants to impress you."
"Of course he does," said Chef, his mouth drawn into a thin line. "Famous Uncle Max. Of course he wants to impress me. But I don't know if that's enough."
Ah. Nephew. The pieces were falling into place.
"It could be," I said, my mind suddenly racing. "He wants your approval, but he's intimidated, too, so that makes him nervous. And he doesn't have a lot of experience working through nerves. He gets overwhelmed easily. Flustered. We can work on that." Now that I'd begun to accept Aiden as non-negotiable, I was thinking more about his behavior, and all of his mistakes, and realizing that I'd once been a bit like him. For a long time, I'd felt like a misfit in professional kitchens. Stupid, even. Flawed. I'd considered quitting, until I realized that I just needed to cope with things a little differently.
A lot of people who gravitate towards this field thrive on stress. Pressure makes them come alive. I'd never been one of them, and as a result, I had to train myself on how to deal with the chaos. I'd done a pretty good job, clearly. But Aiden didn't even know where to start.
"I hope so," said Chef, his hands shoved deep in his pockets. "If you think you can help him, be my guest."
"I know I can," I said, regretting the words as soon as they left my mouth. "Aiden, I think - I think he's one of those people who does a lot better when he has just one thing to focus on, and lots of time to figure out how to deal with it. Obviously that's pretty much the opposite of a restaurant, but he can learn his own way of handling the stress. And I can help."
Chef smiled, finally - a tired smile, but it was a smile. "Don't tell me you used to be an Aiden."
"Well," I said, feeling myself start to blush again. "Not exactly. No. But I do understand a little bit of what he's going through."
"Well." Chef shook his head like he wanted to banish all his worries. "If you can turn him into half as good of an employee as you are, I'll be forever in your debt."
My throat tightened, and I could feel my blush grow even hotter. "Thank you, Chef," I said, quickly turning away before he could see my bright red face.
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